


Words, like daggers

by Chibiness87



Category: A Discovery of Witches (TV), All Souls Trilogy - Deborah Harkness
Genre: 1.06, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, F/M, How Do I Tag, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Satu aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 15:19:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16621472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chibiness87/pseuds/Chibiness87
Summary: Heaven help a fool who falls in love





	Words, like daggers

**Author's Note:**

> I was cleaning, found this as a rough draft. So I cleaned it up, and posted it.   
> Title comes from Hamlet, Act 3, scene 4

**Words, like daggers** , by **chibiness87**  
**Rating: T**  
**Season/Spoilers:** Set between 1.06 and 1.07  
**Disclaimer:** not mine

Heaven help a fool who falls in love

* * *

 

She’s settled on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, Baldwin’s warnings still loud in her mind. Matthew’s shirt, one of the few things she can handle against the raw skin of her back, feels soft against her skin. The mug of herbal tea Marthe had made for her is warming her palms, while Matthew keeps her tucked under his chin. His hand has taken up a repetitive motion over her side, careful not to jostle them too much in the stillness of the room, but she can still feel his emotions rumbling just under the surface of his skin. His eyes have yet to return to the soft blue she knows, the predator within him still standing guard over what is his.

She’s feeling soft. Lethargic. While she knows sleep will be a long time coming, if at all, right now she feels safe. Content to sit here and watch the fire burn. So when he speaks, it startles her. “I wish you had never returned to Oxford.”

The log on the fire cracks, sparks flaring for a second. She freezes. She must have misheard him. Must have. “What?”

“Oxford.” He shakes his head, the hand on her side stilling. “I wish you had stayed away.”

She swallows, leaning out of his embrace, placing her mug of tea on the table. Turning, she does nothing to rearrange the fallen blanket, eyeing him carefully. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” He nods. Looks away. “I do. I wish you had never come to Oxford. I wish you had never even heard of Ashmole.” He looks up, eyes dark and powerful, deep pits she could fall into. This is the vampire, the one he tries so hard to stop her from seeing, unaware she seems it all the time regardless. Voice no more than a whisper, he says, “I wish none of this ever happened.”

 _I wish I had never met you_ , he doesn’t say, but she hears it anyway.

She stares at this man she thought she knew. The man she loves. The one who, only hours ago, had helped clean her injuries, all soft touches and gentle hands, all while calling her his _lionne_. Remembers the way he had caressed and teased last night, remembers him laughing with her in bed. The way his eyes had lit up when she had come from a few well-placed strokes to her clit. The way his eyes hard darkened when she had made him come with just her mouth.

He regrets it.

He regrets them.

Wishes they had never met.

 _Oh_ , she thinks. _Oh, Diana. What a fool you are_.

Standing, glad the stone castle floors forces her to constantly wear shoes, she hurries from the room, unable to meet his eye. Dimly, she is aware of her magic rising, a power pushing him away, holding him fast while she makes her escape. Somewhere deep down she knows this is foolish, but her emotions are too much in turmoil for rationale to exist. She doesn’t stop when he calls her name, despite the confusion and hint of anger in his tone, unwilling for him to see just how much his words have cut her, so much deeper than the scars she now has on her back. Scars which shows she is his. His insignia branded across her ribs. It feels like a mockery of what they could have been.

She runs outside, not even caring that the last time she was alone in the grounds she was taken away. She wonders, if it happens again, if he would follow this time. Wonders if he would even care.

“Diana?”

The voice of the old vampire stills her, arms wrapping around herself for a moment. Huffing a breath, she brushes the tears that have escaped from her cheeks at the call and turns, a false smile on her face. “Marthe. Sorry. I didn’t know you were out here…”

Marthe points to be bed besides her. “Herbs. For your tea.” The vampire’s face falls into a frown, and Diana knows she can read her. She wonders what her scent is telling the older woman, wonders how it compares to Matthew. Stopping the thought of him before it consumes her, before it is written over her face, she feels a tear slip free. Biting her lip against any more, she refuses to let herself be drowned. She has already shed enough water over Matthew.

Marthe’s face crumples into concern. “What happened?”

It is all Diana can do to shake her head, words failing her.

Marthe sighs, shaking her head. “What did he say to you?”

“What?”

Marthe gives her a soft look. “I’ve been with this family longer than I can remember, my dear. I know how much tempers can overrule head and heart, especially in times of stress. Matthew. He said something, something which upset you, non?”

“He wishes he never met me.” The words escape her without permission, her deepest fear out for all to see.

But Marthe only raises a brow. “He said this? Those words, exactly?”

Diana pauses. “Not… exactly.” When Marthe says nothing, she sighs. “He wishes I had never gone to Oxford. That none of this happened.”

To her surprise, Marthe lets out a snort. “That boy. _Dieu_. Mated less than a week and already getting it wrong.”

“Boy?” Despite herself, Diana feels a smile quirk at the edge of anyone referring to a vampire over 1500 years old as a boy.

“He is young.” Diana raises an eyebrow, and Marthe tilts her head in recognition. “Compared to me, he is young. And foolish.” She gives Diana a look. “And he is in love.”

“He’s…”

“A man.” Marthe gives her a small, knowing smile. “Don’t forget, at the heart of it all, he is still just a man.”

“Marthe.”

But the older woman only shakes her head. “It’s true. They are all the same.” When Diana opens her mouth to question what in the world that’s supposed to mean, Marthe continues. “You know human males, yes? And witch males? Deamons?”

She thinks of Chris. Of Sean. The male deamon who followed her around throughout grad school. “Yes.”

“How well do they express themselves, really?”

Diana frowns.

“You see? Now,” Marthe pauses, waits until Diana meets her gaze. “Add fifteen _hundred_ years of being alone to that.”

Diana pauses, considering. Takes a moment to think. Quietly, she mumbles, “You’re saying I overreacted.”

Marthe smiles softly. “I’m saying, he loves you. And when he stops being scared, he’ll remember what you are.”

Curious now, Diana meets the older vampire’s gaze. “And what’s that?”

“Son cœur.” Marthe gives a sure nod. “His equal.”

“Diana!”

She turns at the call, attention drawn to the door. From the corner of her eye, she sees Marthe smile. “You see?”

“Diana!”

Despite Marthe’s assurances, his voice still freezes the blood in her veins. She doesn’t know if she can face him right now. She feels the wind pick up around her, her feet lifting from the ground. But before she can flee, his is there, pulling her back to him. Her anger blazes, memories of being flung around by Satu deep and pain filled, and she feels sparks flashing from her fingertips. Not wanting to hurt him, Gods, anything but that, she cries out a warning, a plea. “Don’t touch me.”

He ignores her, pushing forward, until his arms are wrapped around her, and she is pressed against his chest. She can fell his heart beating, knows if he were human it would be racing, his head buried in her hair.

“I didn’t mean you,” he gasps desperately into her hair. “ _Merde_ , Diana, I didn’t mean you.”

His mouth falls to hers, hard and desperate, and it is all she can do to cling to him. Lips push hers apart, his tongue lashing against her teeth, his hands grasping at her back over the insignia branded into her skin.

His touch burns like ice, heated and cool at the same time, making her blood sing in her veins. He can hear it, or feel it, he must do, because he lets out something she can only think of as a growl, moving his head down to where her shoulder meets her neck, breathing in heavily.

She can feel the tension in his arms, but the rasp of his breath on her neck has her tilting her head to the side regardless. “Matthew…”

“Don’t.” He swallows, loud in her ear, voice weak.

She falls silent, listening to him breath, drinking in her scent. She can feel him warring with himself, and when his mouth falls to her pulse point she cannot help the slight gasp that escapes. But instead of the sharp sting of his teeth she expected to feel, there is only softness. He kisses her pulse, an echo of a kiss he left on her wrist, hand cradling her head gently.

“I didn’t mean us,” he whispers, kissing her pulse once more.

Pulling back, his eyes flickering between human and vampire, he lays a kiss to her forehead, resting his own there a moment later. “I just wanted to save you from pain.”

And suddenly, she understands what Marthe was saying. Not about being alone, but the fear he would be that way again. “But you did save me.”

“No, ma lionne.” He gazes at her, pride and wonder in his tone, his face. “You saved yourself.”

She looks down. “But, I don’t know how.”

“Hey.” He kisses her again, holds her close. “We’ll figure it out, okay?”

Wrapped in his arms, feeling his heart finally calm, there is only one response she can give. “Okay.”

* * *

End

 


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